Sanctuary

22

Next morning I’m energized, gulp down some coffee, literally gallop out of my flat.

Stewart gave me the address of Benedictus’s brother, so I head for his house. Maybe he knows where she is now. And if he doesn’t tell me, I’ll beat the fucking daylights out of him and enjoy it.

I knock on the door. I have the revolver in me right pocket. If she comes at me with a hockey stick, I’ll blow the cunt to smithereens. Sorry for the language, but I’m spitting iron over the hurt to Stewart.

I hear real heavy footsteps. The door opens on the most overweight man I’ve ever laid eyes on. I mean, 300 lbs and change. He’s wearing what appears to be a blue tent and it’s lined with sweat.

He puffs, ‘May I help you?’

The butt of the revolver is sweaty in my hand and I let go lest I shoot me balls off from nerves.

‘I’m looking for your sister.’ Let lots of aggression into my tone.

He sighs, more like a rumble, says, ‘Taylor. . Jack Taylor. It is, isn’t it?’

I nod and he waves me in. He doesn’t walk so much as waddle and we go into a surprisingly neat front room, and he flops down in the largest chair I’ve seen.

He says, ‘I had to have it made special and it cost. Would you like a drink? You’ll have to get it yourself — in the cabinet there, and some water for me. I’m trying to cut back.’

He laughs at the sheer ridiculousness of this. He has a warm, embracing laugh. I’m trying not to like him.

Fuck it. I pour me a large Bushmills. When do you come across fifty-year-old black Bushmills? I get him a bottle of Galway water and a glass — all the glasses are clean and shining. I hand the glass to him and I sit in a hard chair opposite him.

He raises his glass, toasts, ‘Chin chin. . and I’ve enough chins for both of us.’

I knock back the golden dram — heaven in a liquid — and he adds, ‘My name is Benedict.’ Let that hover, then says, ‘Yes, she stole the name. She is indeed Benedictus and quite truly insane. She didn’t always use to be.’

He gulps the water — some dribbles down his multi-chins. He continues, ‘But then a lot of us used to be sane. Wouldn’t you agree?’

I still can’t get over his almost childlike voice, so soft, so quiet.

I say, ‘I need to find her.’

He nods, says, ‘You’d better.’

Hello? I ask, ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means she is obsessed with you.’

‘Why?’

He shakes his head. ‘She never told me, and trust me, Mr Taylor, she is not somebody you can interrogate.’

My hand is back on the revolver. I’m losing my bearings. I take a swig of the gold liquid, croak, ‘What?’

‘After Siobhan’s suicide and Jo got slung out of the order, she went completely wild. Got tattoos — can you believe it? — and very elaborate ones. But in her latest stage of insanity, she skinned them off. And I mean that literally. She’s into pain, as you’re about to discover.’

It took me a while to digest this and all the while he watched me, sweat pouring down his face. He didn’t attempt to wipe it off. He had the softest brown eyes, like a cocker spaniel.

I finally managed to ask, ‘Why didn’t you do something about it — about her — when you realized she was actually out there, killing people?’

He looked me right in the eyes, no guile or evasion. ‘Because I’m afraid of her.’ He paused, then said, ‘You’d better be afraid of her too. She has, as the Yanks term it, a hard on for you. . if that’s not too disrespectful to say about a nun.’

And then he began to pull himself out of the chair. I rose to help but he waved me away. He got some more water and the bottle of Bush, handed it to me, said, ‘Please, have another.’

I did.

He sank back into the chair with visible relief.

I had to know, asked, ‘Why me?’

He finished the water and said, ‘You killed a child, and worse, a handicapped child.’

I was going to protest, tell him of the new developments. Instead I said, ‘We’ll have to stop her.’

He gave a small titter — that’s the only way I can describe the sound. ‘We? Not me, mate. As you can see, getting out of a chair is the biggest accomplishment of my day, and going after Jo — whoa, not me, fellah.’

‘But you’re her brother. Don’t you feel any responsibility?’

He suddenly grabbed his shoulder and began to intone, ‘It is related in the annals of Clairvaux that St Bernard asked Our Lord which was His greatest unrecorded suffering and Our Lord answered, “I had on my shoulder, while I bore my Cross on the Way of Sorrows, a grievous wound which was more painful than the others and which is not recorded by men.”’

I was thinking, What the fuck? and more. Whacko.

Sweat was now flooding his body and he tore at the fabric on his shoulder, gasped, ‘Come, Mr Taylor, come and see the work of Sister Benedictus.’

Like a damn fool, I did.

I’ve seen wounds, cuts, abrasions, from knives, guns, hatchets, hurleys, and none of them pretty. But this. . this was a whole other territory. A huge gash had been gouged into his shoulder, as if with a machete, and then looked as if it had been hammered with a blunt instrument. It had that look of something that had healed and been re-opened.

It made me sick to my stomach. Not even Bushmills, potent as it is, could block the sheer horror of it. And I swear, it smelt of corruption. I stammered, ‘You need to get that looked at.’

I didn’t want to mention gangrene, but I’d seen green in there.

He gave the saddest smile I’ve seen, said, ‘’Tis my penance.’

Like I said, whacko.

So I asked, ‘What happened?’

He looked at his water glass. Empty. And his eyes read, How’d that happen?

I went and got him another — fuck it, two of them. Poured me some water too. My throat was parched. Handed them to him and he said, ‘You are a kind man, Mr Taylor. Behind that tough-guy mask there is a good person lurking, but it won’t save you from my sister. As you can see, it hasn’t saved me.’

‘How will I find her?’

He gulped more water. ‘You won’t have to. She’s already tracking you.’

‘Have you a photo?’

He gave a loud belly laugh. ‘Nuns don’t do snaps.’

I nearly snapped meself, but held it back. ‘You must have some idea where she’d hole up? And for Chrissake, what is she doing for money?’

He said calmly, ‘The Lord provides.’

Jesus, the temptation to wallop him was ferocious.

He said, ‘You wish to strike me, Mr Taylor?’

Fuck.

He let his eyes close for a moment. The sweat must have been stinging the bejaysus out of them. ‘Don’t feel bad, Mr Taylor. People have wanted to strike me my whole life. They see me, my massive bulk, and it brings out something very ugly in them.’

I couldn’t resist, said, ‘Weight Watchers — you ever heard of them dudes? Instead of wallowing in selfpity, you could do something about yourself.’

I know. . from me, priceless.

He opened his eyes, a shine in them now, said, ‘And you could go to AA.’

Touché.

He added, ‘You think it’s food that has me like this? It’s a medical condition. Sure, I can go on diets and I’ve tried them all. I even drank cabbage soup for a month, nothing else, and in fact I put on weight. Children call me names on the streets — you know how that feels. In this new rich country of ours obesity is becoming a national issue, so at least I won’t be alone.’

This was going nowhere. I stood up and asked, ‘You’re not going to help, then? You’re just going to let her run amok?’

He gave that smile again. ‘But I have you on the case, Mr Taylor. What more could the city need?’